Woe are some. Chewing gum. Temples never trying.
Some good thing. In my past. Always gets me smiling like an idiot.
Don’t forget to forgive. Yourself when you’ve shelved. That love around your sight. of your own self.
Penny-colored sunlight late. on the dunes and waves.
And my burnished face.
My (as in this hand’s pen’s person’s) life a Picasso piece kaleidoscoped, rotoscoped, enveloped in the vellum them cherubim flew to deliver to you (to you). All of my sickness. All of my heart. Kept in the longhand they handed to you.
How, how, how? How’re you a halo in secret and—caged in some Polaroids’ prism—in prison? How? How is it a cold sequence? melting by the sun a run of runaways on the concrete. And any light the color of any flame. Kept in a clear vase where’s my water. where’s my flowers’ drink.
Have you… if ever, have you? blinked, or missed the mark, or lost that breeze that grazed the fray? Fucked up the last line? Questioned the speech that you speak? forgotten your reasons? Listen.
You’re when the show’s on. Show you a sign of things. Put your heart in their meanings for you (for you). Hasten. if it’s how you have to balance things. If it’s what it takes to breathe, then. run and believe’n me my Sarah Tonin. I’m in the leaves blown a park and away. empathizing with the sunlight on the back of your neck. and the way that it transfers its warmth unto you. with the wind a blear overhead, underneath,. asking us for signs of things,. to put our hearts in their meanings for us (for us) at least. and a gum stick in a split half. at last and glad.
Then, if our heads work, we’ll go for night swims. Then, if our hands work, we’ll get some words in. Then, if the time’s right, it’ll be daylight. Then, if there’s time left, I will say “all right.” and fall back asleep like a low tide at midnight. all right.
Cool winter mint-breath-whisp-ring darling-sweet nothings nothing learns from nothing gets understood about standing numb-faced in the street nineteen-degrees Fahrenheit my nose red. Rudolph the reject whose nose shone. sunburnt. in April on the beach, bleached by high beams. my friend and the West a bit upshore where. there is the plumb line and aflame wood an a 24 of Budweis. Not the alternative to any other shoreline.
My life. golden-tinted amber-jellied sunset-dampened stories fixing to happen. I yet a scriber. of what is of me.